


Timely Returns

by Portia77



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Drabble, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 19:38:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Portia77/pseuds/Portia77
Summary: With two massive strides he’s there, he’s got her, with one hand in her hair and another around her waist, crushing him to his chest so he might kiss her better, so he can breathe her in and make sure she smells the same as when she left.(She most assuredly does.)





	Timely Returns

**Author's Note:**

> Found this buried in an old folder of Sansan. Thought I might as well share it with y'all. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

“My lord,” the guards all say as he storms into the castle. “Welcome…”

And that is as far as they usually get before he has stomped past them, a mindless, blinding fury guiding him down the halls.

 _Fuck_ the size of this damned castle. _Fuck_ the distance from the front doors to his chamber – to _their_ chamber – where he’s told she’s there, she’s waiting for him, she’s been there since dawn…

“And no one thought to find me?” he bellows, and most of them cower, but one was brave enough to say, _“She insisted we let you finish your hunt, milord.”_

“I’m not a lord!” he barks, but of course, he _is_ a lord. He is _their_ lord, moreover. And isn’t that half the problem?

So he barrels down the halls and up the stairs and through countless doors until at-fucking- _last_ he’s there, looking at the half-open door to their chambers, and the soft, sweet sound of a little bird chirping stops his breath.

She’s not using words, he realizes, but humming gently, barely loud enough to hear even with the door open.

He pushes the door further, feeling like he’s walking underwater or else in a dream, and manages to stop himself from running headfirst at her like some sort of animal as soon as he sees her, standing by the window, brushing her hair methodically.

But then he remembers that he _is_ an animal, he’s a dog, so to the hells with being proper. With two massive strides he’s there, he’s got her, with one hand in her hair and another around her waist, crushing him to his chest so he might kiss her better, so he can breathe her in and make sure she smells the same as when she left.

(She most assuredly does.)

Her shoulders tremble, not with tears but laughter, and when he pulls away from her long enough to catch his breath (he’s not as young as he once was), she’s got an endearing smile on her face.

“Miss me?”

“Why did you not send for me?” he demands, ignoring her question (because of course he fucking _missed her,_ and she bloody knows it). “Why not send word that you were coming early?”

“I thought I might surprise you,” she says, still smiling in the face of his snippiness. “And when I heard that you were out hunting, I just thought it was so lovely outside, I couldn’t bear to interrupt your day.”

He settles then, sliding his hand from the nape of her neck down to her waist, where he holds her now, close but soft.

How far they have come, him, a hound-turned- _milord_ and her, able to smile in the face of his scars, even in the face of his temper.

She reaches up, plucks a stray hair from his cheek (his good one), tucks it behind his ear (his good ear, too), and sighs happily. “So was the hunt a success?”

“Fuck the hunt.” Sandor pauses, long enough to realize he’s probably supposed to ask her about _her_ journey also. “Well? How was the little hellcat, then? Your _sister_.”

“Arya is quite well. We spent most of the visit together.” He had assumed as much. “She sends her regards.”

It’s _his_ turn to laugh now, a harsh rasping sound he’s certain must grate on her ears but somehow makes her grin.

“The little bird has learned _quite_ the pretty songs,” he teases, because they can do that now. They can tease and jape and poke fun at each other, because the past is just that, and the present is so…so happy. Too happy, he privately fears, as though someone somewhere will sense his happiness and come steal it from him.

Well. They’d have to kill him then, plain and simple. And he doesn’t plan on dying any time soon, that’s for damn sure. Not with the maiden-made-flesh warming his bed and loving his ugly mug.

“I could sing a pretty song for _you,_ if you… _asked_ _nicely_.” She bats her eyelashes at him, soft and fair, and he reaches both hands down to seize her bottom, squeeze it firmly in his palms. She yelps, only slightly undignified, and relaxes, sliding her arms around his shoulders as best she can.

“Aye? Shall I coax it from you, then?”

Her nose tilts up to touch against his in the sweetest, most achingly gentle way possible, and somehow he thinks his heart might fall apart at the very gesture. Her breath is warm on his lips and sweet on his tongue as she whispers back.

“Please do.”


End file.
